


To Himling: Part Twenty-Two

by vetiverite



Series: To Himling [22]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brain Injury, Brothers, Coma, Consensual, Durin Family, Durin Family Angst, Durin Family Feels, Durincest, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Dwarven Politics, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Espionage, Gentle Sex, Ghost Thorin, Ghost Thrain, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, Intrigue, M/M, Not-So-Gentle Sex, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seizures, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, Tauriel? Who's Tauriel?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:26:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25245364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: The elders' anger hides an edge sharp enough to cut... but Fili and his family wield wit as ably as steel.
Relationships: Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien), Nori (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s), Ori (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: To Himling [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1429636
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	1. Enough

_You should get angry at the elders more often_ _._

Splayed across the pallet as limp as a cat in the sun, the speaker could hardly have moved even if he wished to—and he did not, for his King was by his side. 

_I’m sorry I was rough_ , came the reply, muffled against his throat.

_Don’t be sorry. You know I liked it._

_As hard as I went?_

_You could have gone harder, and I’d still have liked it._ Kíli’s thumb-tip drew a teasing spiral on his brother’s bare shoulder-blade. _If you don’t believe me,_ _challenge me to another match._

It had begun with a nudge of foot against shin: a signal quartz-clear to the two who had long shared it. Soon it progressed to playful grappling, which ended in calculated surrender on Kíli’s part. He knew what his King required and invited him to take it all— and Fíli did, thrusting fast and forceful until he came with a lusty roar.

Such recklessness wasn’t their usual way—but then, nothing about the day was usual. 

The fine, cold rage that had carried Fíli through the botched ascension held fast through the parley that followed. _By all means, stay on at my family’s lodge,_ he told a thunderstruck Navrin. _In fact, I insist— and when Lord Ninur arrives, I’ll send him straight to you. I’m sure he’ll be eager to hear everything directly from your lips._

This was his way of saying: _I’d toss you off my mountain as easily as breathing, but I prefer that you face your punishment within my arm’s reach._

In the end, all nine elders departed together, though with far less unity than when they arrived. Navrin appeared shaken, Stothrin nettled, Darvi and Rurik stone-faced with resentment. Those who had sided with Fíli strode with chins high. Last in their line came Forekhet, long face unreadable, beard-braid tightly grasped in his vowing-hand.

Fíli ought to have felt some sense of triumph. But for all the toasts and poems offered up at that night’s banquet, he could not quiet the traces of mutiny echoing in his mind. Forced cheer is no better than stifled anger, and he carried the weight of both. In the end, Kíli begged the people’s pardon and drew their weary champion away, up to their room, and then, and then...

Kíli did not lie; he liked being taken so— fully and fiercely, on hands and knees before his _yasthûn_. The hasty manner of their mating had excited them both tonight. Yet for all it sated his lust, Fíli still felt uneasy. Splaying his fingers over Kíli’s heart, he whispered, _‘Ibinê, did—_

… _mm?_

Very soft, so soft it was more felt than heard: _Did I please you, as you did me?_

Kíli tipped his head to kiss Fíli’s temple. _I’m pleased enough._

_‘Pleased enough’ seems a poor thing to be, when you could be more._

A long, considering pause, followed by another caressing spiral. _I couldn’t be more pleased than I am right now, Fílimê._

_You’re sure?_

_I’m sure._ Kíli’s voice turned sly. _In the morning, when you’re well-rested, you can wake me up the way we both like. But right now…_ He kissed Fíli again, and the love in his voice resonated through the dark room. _Right now I have all I need, praise be to Mahal._


	2. Night Callers

Enfolded in darkness and the comfort of one other, the brothers’ talk continued under the covers.

_I wonder how the elders are getting along tonight. Imagine the talk around their fireside!_

_I hope Nori follows them and listens at the chimney. That will make for a funny tale._

_Not for— Kílimê, stop it!_ Fíli hated when the bedclothes mysteriously twisted the wrong way, usually the work of a certain someone else in the bed _._ Prolonged rustling and peevish grunting ended with a settling sigh. Then: _It won’t be a funny tale for Navrin. He’s in for uncomfortable times._

_Y-you-you don’t feel bad for him, do you?_

_A fool who doesn’t know he’s a fool should be pitied. If Navrin’s let the wrong people bend his ear, Ninur will take him to task for it. As for Rurik and Darvi…_ Fíli drew in a long breath through his teeth. _It’s Dáin they’ll be facing._

Kíli was in no mood for leniency. _They know ff… full well what they’ll get from him, and they’ll deserve it._ Then he broke the baleful tone of his words with a peal of laughter. _This is why you have to rule me, Mim. You see what kind of King I’d make, like Náin the Bloody, or Grandfather._

_My Cub, a tyrant? Never—_

Kíli abruptly went rigid. 

Fíli rose up on one elbow in alarm. _Zanid! Are you—_

Seizing his brother’s hand, Kili squeezed hard twice in quick succession. He then laid his two index fingers upon Fíli’s lips and moved them apart to tap his jawline just under each earlobe.

_(Quiet. Listen.)_

They became like stone effigies, ears straining for sound. 

Fíli’s first thought (confided to Jera later) was that Arn and his lady had crept upstairs in search of lovers’ privacy. Kíli, on the other hand, envisioned bandits come to ransack Thorin’s shrine room. A thought, awful in its import, pierced him.

 _Fíli!_ he whispered in a panic _. The door! I forgot—_

 _Shh. I’ll see to it._ Fíli slid to the edge of the pallet and stole naked through the darkness to throw the bolts.

Fearful of orc-breach after Ganin’s death, Dís had ordered every key lock partnered with interior deadbolts, top and bottom. Though seldom used, they were faithfully oiled and calibrated at her behest. Now, as the iron rods slid with silent ease into their deep-driven channels, Fíli blessed his mother’s foresight.

But as he looked back to the bed, there came the dry, papery sound of whispering: two voices, neither belonging to a woman.

_Which one is it?_

_End of the hall._

Judging by accent alone, the owner of the first voice hailed from Erebor. Whoever he was, the fact that he spoke at all took Fíli aback. In such a circumstance, what kind of Khuzd would fail to use _iglishmêk?_

As for the second voice, recognition deepened Fíli’s shock. With no effort, the thought slid into his mind–

_(the deer forest)_

–and a revelatory chill prickled his scalp.

The accent was that of Rhûn. 

From the bed, Kíli clucked his tongue twice, a question in code: _What's happening?_

Like his namesake the lynx, Fíli softly hissed: _Ffffhhhhht!_ Heart knocking like a fist against his ribs, he lifted an axe from a wall hook and pressed his back against the door. 

Shoe leather scuffed, coming closer, halting outside their room. After an agonizing pause, the door handle slowly turned.

As one of the unseen brigands put shoulder to oak, testing the door’s strength, Fíli struggled to suppress his panic. The Rhûn-lander’s presence in the hallway was no more accidental than the arrow he’d loosed in the wood. What weapon did he carry now—and for what intended use? It occurred to Fíli that the intruder might peer through the empty keyhole at defenseless Kíli; he immediately covered it with his thumb.

Stiff knee-joints creaked as one of the strangers knelt before the lockplate. A faint _plink!_ of metal striking metal— and the blunt tip of a feeler hook pushed through the keyhole into Fíli’s flesh.

Anger flared like gunpowder grains within his heart— anger at the intruders' stupidity, their clumsiness, and above all, their impudence. _So they dare to pick locks and peek through keyholes in Thorin Oakenshield’s house!_ Drained dry of patience with their antics, he stepped back and swung the axe, striking the door with the flat cheek of its blade: _WhhhhhUNNNT!_

Metal picks tinkled like bells as they scattered across the stones. Footsteps pounded— not back up the corridor, but across the landing and down and down the winding stair which led to—

 _Fenja!_ Kíli gasped, lunging forward across the bed.

 _Sssh_. Fíli held up his finger, silently counting as one does to gauge the distance of a thunderstorm.

A war cry split the night. Smash of crockery; clash of copper; a sizzle, a splash; male screams of agony. The resounding _clunk!_ of cast iron against stone wall first, then unprotected skull— all against a backdrop of the purest female rage.

_—you come into MY KITCHEN—_

_Fenja,_ a satisfied Fíli snarled.


	3. Alarm

To a mind torn from the mire of slumber, the tale made no sense. Midnight prowlers, scalded milk… a _frying pan?_ Dís could not grasp any of it. 

_Perhaps these men simply could not sleep,_ she proposed to her foster-mother. _Did you give them anything?_

 _Oh, yes,_ replied Fenja.

Consumed by a drowsy desire for ignorance, Dís longed for Fenja’s tale to be reasonably explained away. But the threads connecting her to her warm bed broke when her sons spilled a pile of lockpicker’s tools on the table before her.

 _There were two of them,_ Fíli told her in his usual brusque manner of distress kept in check. _I want them found and tossed in the stockade before dawn._

Nori ran his tonguetip over the edges of his teeth as he examined the lock picks. _They’re Rhûn-made, all right. Typical shoddy work— you see that there? Rhûn-landers never grind the seam down after they cast. That’s what gives it away._

Fenja - who had just finished scrubbing milk and blood off the flagstones and had no patience for lectures – snapped, _I for one don’t care where those men came from, only that they go._

 _A-Arn said there were strangers at the lodge and soldiers in the hills,_ Kíli reminded Dís. _Could they have been…?_

 _We’ll soon know!_ declared Fíli. _If they’re outside, the watchmen will catch them. If they’re inside, Mahal help them._ His voice dropped into the deep rumble Thorin had once reserved for his gravest anger. _I don’t care if they are Khazâd. Náin the Bloody would have fattened the wargs on their flesh for deeds less serious than this._

Voices in the corridor: Ori and Dori. Based solely on overhearing Fíli’s last few words, the latter already looked put out. _I suppose you’ve done it this time!_ he boomed at Nori.

 _Lower your voice!_ Fenja ordered. _There are brigands loose in the house!_

It came as a considerable surprise to Dori that she might not mean Nori.

In came Gimli with Bhurin in tow. Clapping the dust of night patrol off his shoulders, the arms-master looked askance at Ori. Of what use was he, so soft and scholarly, when real trouble was afoot? At least Nori and Dori could fight, though with each other more often than not…

 _Here I am!_ announced eager Gimli, as if everything hinged solely on this fact. _What will you have me do?_

That every soul in the room instantly looked to Fíli gave Fenja a surge of pride.

 _There are two strangers afoot,_ Fíli told them. _One from Rhûn, the other from Azsâlul'abad. They must be caught—but quietly. Bhurin, take the grounds; Ori and Dori, search the stronghold. Gimli, I want you to find Fjôl’s children and search the northwest cavern. Remember:_ quietly _. I want no gossip and no alarm. Fenja will stay here with Mother. Kíli and I—_

 _Will go nowhere!_ Dís stood up from her seat at the kitchen table. _You’ve been in enough danger tonight._ Beckoning to Nori, she laid both hands on his shoulders. _You know what I need you to do, my friend._

Dori startled; there was no hiding from him anything to do with his Nori. _What?_ _What must he do?_

To everyone’s wonderment, Ori spoke up. _His job, Dori._

_What JOB? Aside from thieving, he has no—_

_Come with me,_ Nori burst out, grasping Dori’s forearm. So often remote or mocking, his eyes took on an eager light. _Come with me and see for yourself what it is I do._

Disarmed but disbelieving, Dori jerked his chin back. _Should I want to see?_

 _Yes, Nadad._ Ori clasped his hands. _You may even want to do, too. Let Nori show you._

 _I’ll more than show you. I’ll drag you right into the middle of it,_ said Nori with relish. _Don’t say you haven’t secretly wished I would._

Dori glanced in consternation at Dís. Had she truly put her trust in this rascal?

 _Go,_ she urged. _There are no hands safer to be in than Nori’s._

For the first time in seventy years, Dori looked at his brother and saw a _naddith_ instead of a nuisance. His hesitation ebbed. _Well… where are we going, and what are we doing?_

_To the lodge, for a look._

_Do you want me to get Jera?_ Gimli asked Nori.

 _Why would he want—_ Dori went red, then peered irritably at Nori. _You’ll tell me on the way, I suppose?_

Nori grinned. _Yes, but don’t worry. Two handfastings come as cheap as one._

Then Fíli pulled on the brothers’ sleeves, drawing them into a huddle. Not to be left out, Gimli pushed his way between Kíli and Ori. Standing all together, heads touching and arms about each others’ shoulders, they looked like children studying a fallen bird on the ground. When they broke, Fíli and Kíli touched each of their comrades on the chest— _iglishmêk_ for sharing heart. 

_Innikag,_ they told each one. _Innikag:_ return soon.


	4. Bidden

The fire had collapsed into crimson embers. Kíli watched them vacantly, too weary to hold a thought in his head. He had striven hard to keep everything straight in his mind, but exhaustion had pried loose his grasp.

On the settee just beyond the firelight’s reach, Fíli drifted in fitful slumber. From time to time a faint whine escaped his throat, but Kíli let him be. Sleep is sleep, dream-wracked or no.

Two chimes of the clock had sounded since Dís locked them in her sitting room. _To keep you safe while I talk with Bhurin,_ she said. Even so, when the door latch rattled, Kíli jerked upright and reached for his belt knife. The sight of his mother framed in the open doorway drew from him a little, chuffing laugh of amazement. Who else did he think would have a key?

For several minutes, Dís lingered over Fíli as she did eighty years ago, when he was but an infant in cradle. Satisfied, she dropped into her armchair and motioned for Kíli to claim his age-old place against her knee. For a time she idly dragged her fingers through his unbound hair from brow to crown. Just as he began to drowse, she slapped his shoulder, a command to face her so that they might talk in _iglishmêk_.

_(Do you remember when Uncle and I took you and Fíli to see the Great Hall?)_

A nod. That long-ago day remained evergreen in Kíli’s mind. 

_(Do you remember the servants’ door we used?)_

Another nod. 

Uncle had led them all down to the linen room opposite the bath-hall. From his belt pouch he produced a stout iron key. Brushing his fingers over the stone wall, he found an innocuous crack and slid the key in. _Watch,_ he said. Two turns sunwise and one counter-sunwise brought forth a loud click. Uncle laid both hands on the wall and pushed. With a scrape of stone, a hidden door swung open! 

Kíli and Fili found themselves peering into a vestibule hung with rows of keys on numbered hooks. Beyond that, ink-blackness. Mother lifted her torch, revealing a broad corridor stretching ahead…

_(Do you remember the lines on the passageway floor?)_

Of course Kíli did. They glistened in the torchlight, those slender stripes of metal embedded in stone. _For the servants to find their way,_ Dís had told them. _Each one marks a path that branches away to a different part of the cavern. Copper goes here, brass goes there, and so on. We’re following the gold line._

It led them to seemingly blank wall, but out came Uncle’s magic key once more. Another click, another scrape, and then the vast, empty, blood-red hall opened like a dragon’s maw before them…

If there was any fear left in the memory, it did not belong to Dís. Her _iglishmêk_ was as curt and confident as that of a seasoned general.

_(The mithril line always stays straight, heading due west. When it clears the cavern, it begins to run downhill.)_

Sure and smooth, her right hand curved through the air, flicking upward at the end to spell out her sons’ fate.

_(To the sea.)_

Kíli reckoned that if he stared at his mother hard enough, she would make all mysteries plain.

_(In a little while, Bhurin will come to take you and Fíli down to the bath-hall. He will stand watch outside the door. After you’ve dressed, you’ll go across the corridor to the linen room. Haya will be there with packs ready for you— and weapons. Put them on, and she’ll let you through the servants’ door.)_

So much did the word _weapons_ dismay Kíli, his hands lost their skill to speak. Dís leaned forward to still them between her own before resuming.

_(You’ll take the mithril line as far as it will go. When the path veers to the left, the ground will turn sandy beneath your feet. You’ll hear the surf booming, and soon you’ll find yourselves out under the stars, looking southward.)_

An angry, effortful grunt from Kíli, as if he were trying to lift something too heavy, too unwieldy. He didn’t understand; why could he not understand? His fingers twisted the hem of his tunic hard and tight.

_Keep walking along the strand. The night is clear and the moon is waxing; you should be able to pick your way over the rocks. Soon, my Trouble, you’ll know exactly where you are—and then you’ll climb._

Kíli’s frantic hands abruptly stilled.

All summer long he’d pored over his Uncle’s maps. He’d never been very clever with runes or numbers, but these shapes and symbols drawn on thin-pared hide made peculiar sense to his eye. If a mark on a map represented a place he knew well, he could clearly picture everything around it – trees, hills, streams, paths – and how to travel to and from it. Now, all in a rush, he began to lay out a new map in his mind. On it he placed Thorinutumnu, the hidden door, the mithril line, the Great Hall, the shore. The last point on the route suddenly showed clear through the mist of incomprehension, and he looked directly into Dís’ eyes as he signed:

_(Our cave.)_

Dis laid her finger on the tip of her nose, but Kíli was not finished.

_(You wouldn’t send us there unless we weren’t safe here.)_

Dís rested her hands in her lap for a moment, willing them to do this heavy work.

_(Two strange Khazâd with badly scalded faces came to the lodge. They asked for Rurik, and he took them in without a second thought. Those men you scared away were not thieves. They may come back— or send others.)_

Kíli hung his head in disgust for a moment, then pounded his thigh with his fist. Across the room, Fíli stirred, sighed, settled again. Kíli kept watch until his breathing evened, then he turned back to Dís.

_(For how long?)_

_(Until Bhurin comes for you.)_

Kíli’s lips parted. Had their cave not been their secret? Even at his age, the canny wisdom of older folk continued to astonish him.

_(What if it’s not Bhurin who comes?)_

Dís’ reply startled him with its vehemence. Flattening her right hand, she touched the opposite side of her throat just under the angle of her chin. Then she brought it down like an executioner’s blade, striking the left hand’s open palm.

Kíli shuddered. Forgetting himself, he spoke aloud. _And after Bhurin comes, then what?_

Smiling, his mother whispered, _The boat_.

Khazâd have no hand-sign for the word _island_ , for what hand is disconnected from the rest of the body? A mountain like Azsâlul'abad may be lonely, but one can still reach it by foot. Physically and philosophically, an island – _guzyu –_ is truly _magazyul_ , isolated _._

Blue Mountain folk called Himling simply _’igzê,_ little island of little consequence. Its common name’s Elvish roots invited further scorn. The elders’ scrolls gave it as _Himring,_ “ever-cold”. But Thorin and Frerin preferred _Himling_ — “ever-thine”. What better thing to call land claimed for one’s heirs to hold forever?

Glistening like black jasper, Kíli’s gaze slowly wandered over his mother’s beloved features, touching on them one by one. When he was finished, he laid his head in her lap, and she threaded her fingers through the hair on his nape.

 _It’s what you’ve both wanted,_ she reminded him. _It comes sooner, that’s all._

_We’re not ready. I, I mean, we haven’t got everything—_

_You’ll rough it. You know how. And then everything you need will be sent. Trouble, my love, I would not send you if it wasn’t necessary. You’re in danger. It must be done._

_Are we n-nnn…_ He steadied himself and hastily resumed, determined to force this terrible thought out into the open. _Are we not to see you again?_ He could not bring himself to say _never._

 _Silly. Of course you will. Be very sure of that._ Her fingertips slid along the line of his cheekbone. _It’s not so far across the water._

 _I’m going to need my little book, at least,_ he said. _And the map._

_I’ll have Haya pack them for you._

_Mim will want his boot axes. And, and Uncle’s grey wool tunic._

_Isn’t that too long on him?_

_It d…doesn’t matter; it’s his favorite one._ Kíli sighed, and Mim felt his warm breath through the light fabric of her summer sleep robe. _I wonder where we will sleep. Not in a bed, I know; I told Mim that would come later._

_Yes. I’m afraid ground-sleep will be all you’ll get at first. But at least it will be indoors. The scouts told me the lighthouse is quite weather-tight. There should be enough room for all of you—_

_All? Not both?_

_You’ll have Gimli, and Sturli will steer the boat._

Twenty years their senior, Sturli had minded the brothers before Fíli came of age at forty. He’d married a Harlindon girl and gone to live there just long enough to learn boatmanship before a quarrel with his father-in-law propelled him and his wife back north again. Possessed of a steady nature, he’d been among the party of surveyors Dís had sent over to the island and would thus be best suited to act as guide.

Mollified, Kíli spoke again with restored mischief: _Why must we take a bath first, Mother?_

Dís leant back in her armchair and studied her youngest through half-lidded eyes. _You may not have hot water again for a long time_. _At least until you settle, and even then, it won’t be much more than what you can heat up over a campfire._ After a delicate pause, she continued. _And until the others leave… it may be some while before you are alone together._

She blushed, as did Kíli. Ducking his head, he endeavored to smooth the creases out of his ill-used tunic hem. _I’ll miss our bath-hall. And our room. And—_

A voice rasped from the direction of the settee: _Why do you say this?_ Sitting up now, bleary-eyed from sleep, Fili regarded them with curiosity. 

As if heeding a clue only she could hear, Dís rose. _I’ll leave you,_ she murmured to Kíli, laying her blessing hand on his crown. She did likewise to Fíli before shutting them in.

Brother looked long at brother. Kíli in his pool of firelight was as beautiful to Fíli’s eyes as he in his pool of shadow was to his yasthûn, who smiled gently.

 _Himling,_ was all Kili said.


End file.
